


Shear Coincidence

by Lamport



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Operation Levity, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamport/pseuds/Lamport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She passes him quickly on her way to Lori, sighing internally when she sees the mop on his head close-up.  This won’t be quick unless he wants a buzz.  He doesn’t even look at her, just strides past with his head down, smelling like cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leigh57](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/gifts).



> This came about from a prompt by the lovely Leigh57 who asked for a Caryl AU with Carol as a hairdresser and Daryl as her client. It started as a drabble and kind of... exploded?
> 
> Thanks to NotLaura and Stephtron312 for being my cheerleaders.

 

It’s fifteen minutes to closing when the bell over the door to Super Cuts jingles, and Carol looks up from the chunks of hair on the floor she’s sweeping around her chair at the back. She shakes herself out of her spiralling thoughts of failure and inadequacy (Maybe he was right - maybe it was her fault that their marriage didn’t work.  Maybe she really can’t make a life for Sophia without him) and straightens up, plastering on a smile which she hopes appears semi-genuine.

It’s a man on his own, which is unusual due to the barber shop across the street.  The only male clients she sees here are either under 15 or over 60, typically escorted by their mothers or wives.  She’s about to start forward to speak to him when she sees that Lori has already greeted him from the desk by the front door, arms crossed - clearly annoyed that he interrupted her in the middle of cash out.  She turns her head and calls out past the empty chairs.

“Carol, you have time for one more?”

She doesn’t really.  Sophia will be waiting for her in their dingy, barely furnished apartment, all alone with nothing but her dolls and the two channels on their television for after-school company.  

But clothes aren’t cheap for a growing girl, especially when she’s begging for name-brands to fit in with the other kids.

“Of course,” she says brightly.  Then to the man; “Come on back and have a seat.  I’ll be right there.”

She passes him quickly on her way to Lori, sighing internally when she sees the mop on his head close-up.  This won’t be quick unless he wants a buzz.  He doesn’t even look at her, just strides past with his head down, smelling like cigarettes.

Lori looks up at her apologetically from the desk, but Carol speaks to her in a low voice, mostly drowned out by the pop music radio station piped through the speakers around the shop.

“It’s okay.  I know you need to meet Rick.  I’ll close up.”

“That’s sweet of you to offer, but I can’t leave you alone in here…” Her eyes flit to the man now sitting stiffly in her chair, chewing the skin around his thumbnail.

Carol smiles.  She’s grateful to have a friend looking out for her.  Only eight months ago she was sitting in Lori’s chair, quietly breaking down while the woman cropped her greying hair close to the scalp, all in an effort to disguise the damage Ed had done with her fabric scissors the night before.

It was Lori who encouraged her to learn how to cut hair, and even offered her an apprenticeship, and then a real job in her salon.  And it was Lori who stood guard in the driveway while she packed up her things in the house while Ed was at work. It was Lori who managed to be compassionate without making her feel pitied.

“It’s alright.  I can take care of myself.”

She says it because she has to believe that it’s true now.

“Are you sure?” Lori says, but she’s already reaching for her purse and keys. “I can call Shane - get him to bring the patrol car over and just keep an eye?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Lori squeezes her arm on her way out the door, and smiles gratefully before hurrying towards her van at the back of the strip mall.  Carol turns the deadbolt behind her, turns the radio down, schools her features, and walks to her client.  

His arms are crossed, and he’s scowling.  

_ Wonderful _ .

“You call the cops to ‘keep an eye’ on every guy who wants a haircut?” he huffs.

“Excuse me?” The smile falls from her face.

“I ain’t deaf,” he offers, jutting his chin slightly toward the desk.  

He heard all that?

“It - it’s not what you think.” She stammers at first, but then lifts her gaze from the hole in his pants at the knee to look him calmly in the eye through the mirror (he has blue eyes - she can barely see them for the hair, but they are deep set. Narrow and intense).  He glares back, but doesn’t move.

“My ex,” she says tiredly.  

It’s bad enough when she thinks about him, now she has to talk about him too?

“He likes to come around here sometimes, especially when it’s quiet.  He’s not welcome.”

Carol doesn’t want to get into it (certainly not with a grumpy stranger), so she waits until the man in her chair uncrosses his arms, and breaks eye contact with her first, before turning to grab a black cape from the shelf behind her.

Ed showed up two weeks ago during her shift.  He made promises that turned into threats when she tried to ignore him, and spat insults at her with such vitriol that Lori called the police.  There were tears - embarrassed ones, angry ones - a yellow rimmed bruise on her arm where he grabbed her, and eventually a restraining order.  She wants to put it all behind her, but her daughter needs a father, even if she picked the wrong one - at least that’s what his lawyer says.

The man flinches when she lifts the hair off his neck to place a folded towel, and stills completely when her arms sweep over his head with the cape.  Under her hands, standing over him in her chair, she feels in control once again.  This is her domain.

“What’s your name?” she asks, not unkindly - eager to put their rocky start behind them and return to the shelter of false confidence and fake smiles.

“Daryl.”

She notices (with some relief) there’s no edge when it comes out.  His voice is lower, mollified.  Without the heat it’s more like a mumble.

“Well, what can I do for you today, Daryl?”

“Need a haircut.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“What’s the occasion?”

It comes out a bit more sarcastic than she intends, but he answers anyway.

“Got a job interview tomorrow.”

“So, it would be good idea if the boss could see your face,” she teases.  To her surprise, the corner of his mouth quirks just a little.

“Funny.”

“You want a buzz cut? A trim? Help me out here.”

She runs her fingers through the strands, measuring the length while she speaks, all business, Lori’s voice coaching in her head; watch the way it falls, the thickness, the curl.  Though somewhat greasy, Daryl’s hair is dark and soft, and at least six inches long.

“I don’t know, lady.  Ain’t you the expert?”

She tugs a long tangled piece covering his ear a little harder than necessary, and smiles to herself when he winces slightly.

“It’s Carol. And before I cut anything, you need a wash.”

If she thought Daryl was stiff and uneasy in her chair, he’s ten times worse sitting at the sink; shoulders wider than the basin itself, hands peeking out from the cape, gripping the armrests like a lifeline, work boots planted firmly on the floor.  She tries to coax him back to rest on the extra towel she made into a cushion, but he holds the weight of his head stubbornly, the muscles in his neck straining with the effort.    

“Relax.  I’m not going to waterboard you.”

“Pfft,” he says, but he lowers his head further into her hands.

With the noise and the warmth of the water the need for small talk vanishes.  She can feel Daryl eyeing her suspiciously for a minute or two while she pulls out the sprayer, but when it’s clear that she’ll be gentle, that he can trust her, he closes his eyes.  

The furrow in his brow slackens when she brushes the hair away from his forehead.  He has an interesting face, distinct cheekbones, full lips, scruffy jaw.  For the first time she notices how handsome he is, even upside-down - how boyish looking despite the bags under his eyes and the crow's feet.  Attractive, though she can’t figure out why exactly.

There’s no ring on his finger.  He probably has no trouble finding company on a Friday night.  

Carol sighs and reaches for the shampoo pump thinking of the blind date Jacqui set up for her the week prior; Something to take your mind off of things, she’d said. Have a little fun, Carol.  

She wasn't sure what part of the date was supposed to have been fun - when she couldn’t find anything in her closet even remotely suitable to wear that wasn’t ruined with bleach spots?  When she met Axel at the bar (what kind of a name was that? And the moustache?) and had to persuade him that she was indeed his date, short hair and all?  When she spent the evening feeling guilty about leaving Sophia down the hall with Maggie’s sister?  No, it was probably when she had to awkwardly excuse herself from a second date.  Look, you seem like a nice guy…  

When it was over Carol stood in front of her bathroom mirror under florescent lights, wiping away her mascara, and taking stock.  The lines on her face, the grey in her hair, the exhaustion she felt deep in her bones, all saying the same thing; You’re a 43 year-old single mother. What did you expect?

It will be a long while before she ever puts herself through that again, if ever.

Carol loses track of time with Daryl’s head in her hands, scrubbing and rinsing.  His hands have loosened their grip, and his knees have fallen open slightly.  One of his feet turns on its side.  He lets out a long breath that signals his surrender.  Even though she’s got places to be, she can’t help but want to draw the whole thing out, he’s enjoying it so much.  And strangely, she’s enjoying it too.  This is her favourite part of the job - no need for small talk, just the smell of grapefruit conditioner, warm silky hair between her fingers, and the knowledge that she’s making someone else feel cared for.

Carol digs the tips of her fingers into the base of Daryl’s skull and rubs in circles, her thumbs pressing behind his earlobes (she knows how good it feels - Lori demonstrated on her).  She can feel the remaining tension in his neck give, his head going heavy and lax with her ministrations, and wonders if anyone has ever done this for him before.  

It feels natural, touching him like this.  Almost tipping into intimate.

“This alright?” she asks, bringing her face closer so he can hear.

His only reply is a deep hum that comes out like a current, vibrating through his head into her hands, sending a jolt right through her.  When did her lips get so close to the white line of a scar on his temple?  

Her heart beats a little faster, and she jerks her hands away without warning at the precise moment that his eyes fly open.

“All done,” she declares, too loudly.  With all the mirrors around them it’s hard to tell who’s blushing more.

Carol practically tosses a dry towel over his head before retreating to her chair, somehow out of breath and flustered from walking five feet.

What was that?

By the time he gets back into her chair the silence between them is charged.  He felt it too, whatever it was.

“So, what’s the job?” She blurts out, desperate for something to say while she searches her station for scissors and a comb, and Daryl rubs his head with the towel, hiding his face.  

He clears his throat before answering.

“Drywalling.”

She doesn’t know much about it apart from Ed drunkenly claiming that he could do it himself after he accidentally kicked a hole in the dining room wall.

“That’s… nice.”

She remembers Lori explaining the importance of small talk; turning the conversation back to the client.   _ Just get them started on something.  People love to talk about themselves, trust me _ .  In the early days of her apprenticeship it was difficult, even with the most chipper clients - she was so unaccustomed to throwing out questions without having to think about how they would be interpreted.  In her experience, asking the wrong questions could lead to harmful consequences.

She takes the now bunched up towel from his hands and starts to work a comb through his hair.

“What do you do now? For work I mean.”

“I get by.”

Silence descends on them once more.  It’s obvious Daryl is not one to talk about himself.  The only sound is the snip of the scissors and the distant radio music (she decides on a trim, enough to reveal his ears and eyes).  She’s resolved to cut his hair as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here, but then he speaks.

“That your kid?”

He’s looking at the school photo of Sophia taped to the corner of her mirror.  She stops what she’s doing to look at it - fake criss-crossing lasers in the blue background.  Sophia smiles widely, showing off her newly formed adult teeth.  Her copper coloured hair is parted just a little crookedly, a few strands sticking out near her ears.  

“Yeah, that’s my Sophia.  Just turned eleven last month.”

It was a very modest birthday party; pizza and cake and giggles.  Just the two of them. 

“She looks like you,” he says.

Carol nods, smiles at him for saying so even though everyone who's ever seen Ed says that Sophia looks like a Peletier.  Her brown eyes and heart-shaped face sure don’t come from Carol.

“You have kids?”

“Hell no,” he scoffs when he says it.

“A girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.  He must have someone - a good looking man like him.

“A boyfriend?”  

She nearly nicks Daryl’s ear, he turns his head to her so quickly, glaring and blushing at the same time.  She feels the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.  

“What is this, twenty questions?”  

It’s hard to take the irritation in his voice seriously with his pink ears sticking out from under a curtain of hair that’s still dripping onto his shoulders.  She puts her hands on either side of his face and angles his head back to face forward.

“Family then?”

“Just my brother, but he ain’t around much.”  

_ Finally, _ something to go on.

“He live out of town or something?”

“He’s in prison.”

She can tell from his slight grimace that he didn’t mean to let that particular bit of personal information slip.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  It’s the only thing she can think to say.  Daryl shrugs.

“Don’t be.  He did it to himself.  Simple-minded piece of shit,” but there’s no real anger there, just weariness.

For a second she wants to ask what he’s in for, but thinks better of it and keeps cutting, moving slowly from the back of his head to the front.  The cape is gradually covered with locks of hair that slide to the floor every time he fidgets. His shoulders are dry before he speaks again.

“Truth is, he was askin’ for it.  Got mixed up with some bad people, did some stupid shit. I tried to warn him, but he’s a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.”  

Daryl seems to have forgotten that she’s there at all; he’s staring at the curling iron, but not looking at it.  He lifts one shoulder slightly - a half shrug.

“Least now I know where he is.  For once.”

Without really thinking, she frees one of her hands and places it gently on his shoulder.  He doesn’t flinch when she touches him this time.  Their eyes meet in the mirror.  He’s still guarded, but she recognizes guilt and loneliness when she sees it.  

Carol knows what it’s like to hope you’re enough to change a person, and the hurt when you realize you’re not.  

“Close your eyes, and hold still,” she murmurs, turning him in the chair to face her.  He complies and she steps closer, her thighs pressing lightly against his knee, warm and solid.  Her fingers brush against the scar on his forehead, and with a few deft snips, she can see his eyes, calm and still closed.  He lets out a deep breath and she can feel it on her wrists, and just about everywhere else.

And because she knows she’ll probably never get to touch him again, she takes a little longer than necessary to inspect her handiwork - running her fingers through his hair, across the shell of his ears - before spinning him back to face the mirror again.

“Much better,” she says softly, crossing her arms.  There’s nothing for him to hide behind.  The length is still there, but his face is clearly visible, and very striking.  It’s easily the best haircut she’s given a man.

“Yeah,” he says, but when he opens his eyes, he’s only looking at her.  

“Definitely employee material,” she says, and cringes at how awkward she sounds.  

Carol doesn’t wait for him to respond before she rips the velcro fastener off the cape.  He tries to help her remove it, but somehow she ends up dropping one end when her hands come in contact with the smooth, bare skin of his arms.  How had she not noticed his sleeveless shirt when he came in?

Now there are bits of hair stuck to his chest and neck - a rookie mistake she hasn’t made in months.  She can almost hear Lori tutting;  _ you don’t want your customers itching on the way out the door.  Leaves a bad impression. _

“Oh, shit.  Sorry.  Just - let me…”

Daryl sits completely still while she brushes the hair off his collar and shoulders with her hands.  His breath hitches when she moves behind him, leans over, and blows at the bits stuck to the nape of his neck.  She's so close, she can feel the wamth of his skin on her face. 

He smells good.

Carol blushes when she remembers that there are neck brushes drying by the sink in the storage room that are meant for this exact purpose.  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

The air feels cooler when she rounds the corner to the back room, and she can take a deep breath.  She’s grateful for the momentary solitude - just her and the thumping dryer.  It gives her enough time to cool down and try to reassume her professional demeanor instead of acting like some clutzy novice.  Carol stays in the back long enough to throw another load of dirty towels into the washer - long enough for her heart to stop pounding in her ears.

When she comes back out with the brush, he’s gone.  

There’s a trail of hair all the way to the door where the bell is still slightly swinging overhead.  She hadn’t heard it in the back over the sound of the dryer.

At her station, there’s a crumpled fifty-dollar bill sticking out from behind the picture of Sophia.  

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

A month later Carol still dreams about him.  

 

Sometimes they’re back at her station, staring at each other through the mirror; both guarded and wary, but hopeful too.  Sometimes they’re somewhere else entirely; in a dark room that smells like cigarettes and grapefruit, his large hands, clumsy on her body, his mouth wet and hot on her neck.  When she wakes, she touches her collarbone, half convinced that she’ll feel him there, and aches. 

 

But then her alarm clock blasts out the traffic report and the weather forecast, and she remembers that she needs to sign Sophia’s permission form for the museum trip, and ask Lori if she can trade a shift with Amy so she can take her to the dentist at 2:00.  Then she has to meet with her lawyer to find out what Ed plans to do about child support.  

 

There’s no room in her life for anything or anyone else.

 

It’s a slow, rainy Tuesday afternoon when she shows up for work, hustling from her car to the front door with her purse over her head.  Jacqui’s in the back with one of her regulars, and Amy is at the reception desk, taking advantage of Lori’s absence by discreetly studying from the Psychology textbook on her lap, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. 

 

Carol says hello and tucks her purse in the lowest desk drawer by Amy’s feet.

 

“Some guy came in asking for you.  I told him you’d be in later.”

 

The rain on her neck feels like ice, and her back straightens.  Was it Ed? Amy’s never met him (thank God) and she’d like to keep it that way.

 

“What did he look like?”

 

“I don’t know.  Middle-aged.  Brown hair, squinty eyes.  Kinda jumpy.”

 

It was Daryl - Carol’s sure of it.  Her dreams come flooding back all at once.  Now she’s impossibly flushed, and has to turn away to hang up her coat on the rack to hide it.  

 

“Did he make an appointment?”

 

“No, he just left.”

 

“Did he say if he was coming back?”

 

“No.” Amy looks up from her book and eyes her suspiciously.  “Who is he?”

 

For lack of anything better to do with her hands, Carol flips through the appointment book to check for any bookings too close together (and maybe to look at names that start with D).

 

“Oh, nobody, really.  I gave him a cut a while back.”

 

She isn’t looking at Amy, but she can hear the smirk in her voice.

 

“Does this  _ nobody _ have a name?”  

 

Carol grabs a pen and circles a conflict in the book, trying not to laugh at Amy’s attempt at making something from nothing. (They’ll have to call Mrs. Horvath to reschedule).  

 

“Daryl?  I think that’s it,” she lies.

 

“You  _ think _ ?”  When she looks at Amy, she’s got the tip of a highlighter pressed against the smile she’s trying to suppress.  Carol closes the book with a sigh.  

 

“I only remember him because he came in at closing.  He left before I could get him his change.  That’s probably why he came back.”

 

“ _Right_.  His change,” Amy says, raising her eyebrows and turning back to her textbook.

 

For the duration of her shift Carol starts at the sound of the bell over the door, but he doesn’t return.  By the time she locks up for the night with Jacqui she feels like an utter fool, completely convinced that she read him all wrong.  It wouldn’t be the first time she misinterpreted a signal from the opposite sex.

 

Maybe it wasn’t Daryl that came in earlier.  Maybe it was, and he really  _ did _ just want his change.  

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

That’s what she tells herself when her eyes well up in the privacy of her car, smacking the wheel in frustration.

 

+++

 

It’s the Saturday of the Thanksgiving weekend, and the salon is so dead Carol debates washing the windows just to have something to do.  Sophia is with Ed, as per their agreement - she’ll stay with Carol for Christmas - and she offered to work so the other ladies could be with their families.  Lori thanked her profusely and insisted she come to dinner on Monday night, but the thought of being surrounded by a happy family that’s not her own isn’t very appealing.  

 

She’s down on her knees, fishing a stray magazine out from behind a chair in the waiting area when the bell rings, and a gust of cool air hits her back where her shirt has ridden up.

 

“I’ll be right with you,” she says, fingers finally reaching the plastic smiling face of the celebrity with the perfectly brown turkey on the cover.

 

But her mouth goes dry, and the magazine slips from her hands and flaps to the floor when she finally looks up and sees that it’s him.

 

Daryl is even better looking than she remembered, more present and animated and sweaty than in her dreams.  He’s wearing a flannel jacket over a dark button down shirt and brown overalls.  And all of him, every inch from his nose to his work boots, is covered in a fine white powder.  It looks like he’s been standing in a snowstorm. 

 

“You got the drywalling job.” She blurts it out without thinking - without even saying ‘hello’ for godsakes.  

 

“Yeah,” he says with a proud little nod of his head (she missed hearing his voice - how was that even possible?).  Before she can stop him, he’s bending down to pick up the magazine.

 

“You free?” he asks, even though it’s abundantly clear they’re the only ones in the place.  His fingers pick at a rip in the vinyl covered seat beside them.

 

Carol straightens, runs a hand through her hair and crosses her arms. 

 

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

 

He smirks, and she wants to kiss him.

 

“Thought you could give me a trim.”

 

“Sure thing,” she cringes at her voice, pitched abnormally high all of a sudden. 

 

Carol leads the way to her chair, feeling his eyes on her the whole time, and wills her hands to stop shaking before she has to pick up the scissors. 

 

+++

 

There’s so much she wants to say to him, but nothing comes out when she opens her mouth. She’s just happy to be near him again - washing the white dust out of his hair, touching his ears, watching him fidget - she doesn’t want to wreck it by talking. 

 

She’s working carefully, snipping around the crown of his head when Silent Night comes on over the radio, soft and sad.  She looks at the picture of Sophia.

 

“Thank you,” she says, stilling her hands over his shoulders, “for last time, for the money. You -”

 

But he cuts her off with a curt shake of his head and she stops short, biting her lip.

 

She used that money to take Sophia out for a burger and a movie, an extravagance by their standards.  Carol thinks of her girl trying to throw popcorn and catch it with her mouth, giggling when she missed, and her wide-eyed delight when she finally succeeded.  A far cry from the strained look of fearful apprehension mixed with doubt when Ed’s sister came to pick her up.  There had to be a third party there at all times.  That was what the judge said.

 

“Carol?”

 

To her complete embarrassment her vision blurs with tears and her scissors falter. 

 

“You okay?” 

 

Carol wishes he hadn’t asked, or said her name (his voice pitched so low and concerned), because then maybe she could have kept it together.  Instead the tears slip out, and she can barely swallow let alone answer him.  Lori would definitely not approve of crying all over a client, even a cute one.

 

Daryl visibly stiffens and she wants to disappear.  She shakes her head and tries to brush off his polite concern with a smile, but when she catches a glimpse at herself in the mirror it looks like she’s grimacing. 

 

He gets out of the chair - a perfect outline of his body left in dust - and takes the comb and scissors from her hands.  She almost laughs when she sees the heart shape contour of his ass on the seat, like some bizarre crime scene chalk outline.  Then he’s staring at her with those blue eyes, and she’s  _ really _ crying.

 

Daryl runs a hand through his half-dried hair and mumbles something before leaving to get her a stack of napkins from the little coffee station Amy set up on the TV tray by the front desk, and steers her to sit in Jacqui’s chair.  Then, when she still can’t stop the tears or catch her breath to speak, he disappears to the back room, black cape flapping, and rattles around through the cupboards for a few minutes before emerging with a lukewarm glass of tap water. 

 

He thrusts the glass into her hands, but doesn’t make a move to leave.  He sits back in her chair, crosses his arms, and waits.  He doesn’t really seem compelled to speak to fill the silence, or try to console her, and for that, she is grateful.

 

His presence is calm and soothing.  They sit together, with Christmas carols playing cheerily in the background, until her tears subside and the water is half gone. 

 

“I’m sorry.  I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

“It’s just that - Sophia’s with my ex this weekend…” she takes a deep breath to will the tears from forming. She’s embarrassed herself enough for one day.  “I’ve never had a Thanksgiving without her.”

 

He nods.

 

“She didn’t even want to go.  And I just - packed her bag.”

 

“Joint custody?”

 

“Yeah.  I fought, but…”

 

It wasn’t enough. She couldn’t afford the lawyer, even with legal aid.  Carol takes a sip of water to keep her throat from closing up.  Daryl sighs heavily before speaking.

 

“Holidays are a bitch.”

 

She nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Fuck ‘em.”

 

Despite herself, she laughs.

 

+++

 

The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of coffee and honest conversation.  Carol tells him about the restraining order and the legal bills (“I just want to get on with my life”).   It turns out that Daryl’s had some experience with both (“Those rich pricks would charge you for breathin’ if they could”).

 

It’s so gratifying to commiserate with someone who understands. 

 

He tells her, in his own brief way about his trip to Atlanta Pen earlier that day.  A visit with his brother over a plastic tray of cold mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce.  Festive and awful.

 

And then, just as easily they fall into a comfortable silence, communicating through glances in the mirror, shy smiles.  She picks up her scissors and finishes his cut.

 

This time, when it’s over, Carol walks him to the front door - shocked to see how dark it’s gotten outside.  She should have locked up hours ago.  He reaches for his wallet, but she waves it away.

 

“Please.  It’s on the house.”

 

Daryl doesn’t argue.  He steps closer, and it’s all she can do to stay upright when he reaches out a hand to give her arm a gentle squeeze.  It’s the first time he’s touched her. A warm rush. 

 

“You take care.”

 

“You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> One part left to go! I have a bit of work to catch up on first, but I plan on posting by Wednesday at the latest. 
> 
> Don't kill me for calling Daryl middle-aged - remember, this is coming from Amy (and he is :P).


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl returns two weeks later on a crazy Thursday night in mid December.  

 

Carol is putting in the last of the rollers in Patricia’s hair, and watching the timer so Shelly Neudermeyer doesn’t end up with hot roots (“Like the last time”).  It’s all hands on deck this shift, every station full of clients.  Lori is in her element, smiling and laughing, and generally doing her best to keep everyone happy and energized.  Jacqui is flitting back and forth between the sinks, dryers, and chairs, and Maggie’s on the phone that hasn’t stopped ringing all day.  Even Amy, who normally stays at the front desk, has her hands full, crafting an up do for her visiting sister.    

 

“I’m just saying, if you really love me you’d let me trim your bangs.”

 

“For the last time, no.”

 

“You’re no fun.”

 

“Amy, no offense to you or this lovely establishment, but I spent $200 on my hair at La Coupe last week and no one trims my bangs but Claude.”

 

Their bickering merges with the voices of a dozen other ladies, and Carol sighs and flexes her legs to get the cramp out of her calf.  She’s exhausted by the non-stop chit chat and the shouting over hairdryers about Christmas parties and everyone’s hectic social calendars.  Three more hours and she can go home, pick up Sophia from the apartment down the hall, and fall asleep with her feet up on the couch watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

 

“Hey, Carol! I think someone’s here to see you.”

 

She looks up, hands still busy fitting the plastic cap over Patricia’s head, and sees Amy waggling her eyebrows.

 

Sure enough, Daryl’s standing by the front desk looking a bit stunned at the frenetic activity all around him - Maggie’s upraised “wait a minute” finger his only greeting.  Carol let’s out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.  

 

He came back.

 

She’s so grateful to see him there, she wants to drop her tools and walk out with him; get away from the noise and just sit together somewhere quiet.  

 

Even from her station she can see that he’s cleaned up a bit, wearing a clean shirt and jeans.  No drywall dust in sight.

 

Then his eyes meet hers, and for a second it’s just them.

 

Carol can feel the heat rising on her face when his mouth quirks up at the corner.  He looks around, taking everything in, then raises his hand in a little awkward wave before backing steadily toward the door.

 

“Wait!”

 

She’s loud enough that at least four conversations stop dead and Daryl’s ears go pink.  But he stops, and she weaves her way through the carts full of tinfoil and hairspray, not caring how it looks.

 

“Hey,” she says, a little breathless.

 

He looks even better up close; well rested, and bright eyed.  She glances down at herself and wishes to god she’d given half a thought to what she threw on that morning.  Her hands are stained with hair dye so she crosses her arms and tries to act casual.

 

Before he can speak the timer on her station goes off with a ding.  

 

“Shit.”

 

Daryl coughs.

 

“You’re busy.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He shifts his gaze to the floor, scuffing the rubber mat with his boot.

 

“Thought you could give me a trim, but…”

 

She wants to laugh out loud.  He doesn’t need a trim.  At all.  She glances back at the dryers where Mrs. Neudermeyer is angrily checking her watch.

 

“Can you come back tomorrow?”

 

His face falls and he mutters a curse she doesn’t quite catch.

 

“Gonna be working on a job outta town for a bit.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Her heart drops to her stomach - she misses him already and he’s standing right in front of her - and she’s so struck by the feeling that she almost doesn’t register the little red rectangular box he’s holding out.

 

“What-”

 

“It ain’t nothin’.  Just some chocolates.  Thought you an’ Sophia might like ‘em. I -” He searches for a word that doesn’t come and stops short, fidgeting and shifting around on his feet.  From behind her she can vaguely hear her name being called.   

 

“You got us a present?” she asks, dumbly.

 

He blushes, uncharacteristically bashful, and keeps his gaze fixed on her shoes.

 

She doesn’t give a damn that she’s at work, or that the women in the waiting area are watching.  He’s been thinking about _her_.  About her daughter.  So she takes the box and puts a hand on his arm to steady herself, placing a quick kiss on his cheek.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Carol!”  It’s Lori’s voice this time, strained yet chipper.

 

“I have to go.”

 

He nods again, and then he’s gone.

 

+++

 

After December the girls at work start with the teasing.  Every time Daryl comes by “for a trim” (which is at least twice a month in January and February) Lori or Amy, sometimes even Jacqui, sidle up to her at her station and announce, “Your boyfriend’s here.”  Every time Carol blushes, and tells them to stop.  

 

And every time he shows up, unannounced, but still secretly expected, she’s that much more convinced that she’s not imagining things; that he likes her, that he’s attracted to her.  He stares at her when he thinks she can’t see him, but there are mirrors everywhere, and even if there weren’t she swears she can feel when his steady gaze settles over her.

 

The truth is, she’s given a great deal of thought to the idea of dating Daryl - how they might move forward from this odd holding pattern, what Sophia would think of him, how they all might get along together - and it gives her a tiny, deeply private, thrill.  She can’t decide if it’s infatuation or fear.  

 

He doesn’t ask her out.  She doesn’t give him her number.  

 

Daryl brings her things; the number of a debt consolidator he trusts, a crossword puzzle they finish together (“Quick to notice things. Nine letters.”), a cold cut sandwich from the deli at the far end of the strip mall when she admitted she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the last cup of coffee from his battered green thermos, strong and still piping hot.  She’s never known a man to be so kind.  It throws her.  

 

Carol stops charging him when Lori isn’t around, though that doesn’t stop him from hiding tips at her station.  She feels guilty for taking his money when he doesn’t seem to have that much to begin with (and because she cuts less and less off each time he visits in the hopes that he’ll keep returning).  

 

The best and worst thing about Daryl is that she never knows when she’ll see him again.  This leads to a sudden preoccupation with her daily appearance, and a distaste for almost everything in her closet.  She makes an offhand comment on a slow day at work about how her wardrobe is nothing but drab and dated, and the next week Amy shows up with a garbage bag full of brightly coloured tops (“I was going to just give them to the Salvation Army anyway”).  Some are too tight, or too low cut, but Carol takes a few - a red tank top, a blue t-shirt, a white button down with a crisp collar.

 

Her hair is growing back, slowly but surely, curling around her neck and ears.  Before each shift she takes a minute in the car to smooth down any errant cowlicks and swipe on some mascara that’s probably expired, but too dear to throw out.  The tiny pearl earrings her mother gave her at graduation are retrieved from her dusty jewelry box.  When she drops Sophia off at school she hugs her goodbye and says, “Mom, you’re so pretty.”  Carol smiles and waves, watching her daughter walk to the school doors, then cries all the way to the salon.

 

She feels like the woman she used to imagine she could be.  Confident that things are going to be okay.  Independant, but not alone.  Maybe even happy.  And she doesn’t really mind how long it might take for something to happen with Daryl, if anything happens at all.  Possibilities are much more exciting to her than certainties.

 

+++

 

Lori hates the idea of her friend having to pay to do laundry at a laundromat, or struggle with the broken machines in her apartment building, so she suggests that Carol take advantage of their brand new Maytag when the shop is closed.  

 

On a Monday morning in March, Carol hauls a laundry basket and a library book into the salon through the back entrance and stills when she hears power tools and voices.  No one should be here.  Quietly she places her laundry on the floor and shuts the door, creeping forward in the dark with one hand gripping her car key between the knuckles on her right hand.    

 

When she rounds the corner to the storefront, she relaxes when she sees Lori.

 

Then she moves further into the room and sees the back of a very familiar head and shoulders.

 

“Daryl?”

 

Lori jumps and clutches her chest.

 

“Oh my god! You scared me!”

 

“Sorry, but … What’s going on?”

 

She’s definitely not seeing things.  It’s him, in one of his work shirts with a pack of cigarettes poking out from the front pocket, a tool belt slung around his hips, and a pencil tucked behind one ear.  Lori’s station has been dismantled, clear plastic sheeting over the chair and mirror, and pieces of cut lumber and sawdust are on the floor next to a circular saw.  Daryl looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

 

“You remember, we talked about adding a partition between the waiting area and my station?  I thought it was about time we made a real space for Amy - I think she’s ready - and I asked Daryl if he could help us out.”

 

Carol nods, but can’t help but wonder why Lori didn’t just ask Rick or Shane to do it. Unless…

 

“Well, I think everything looks great! I’ll leave you to it,” Lori says, gesturing vaguely to the mess on the floor, and heading towards Carol. “I’ve got to run to the bank and meet Rick for lunch.  Be back around six.”

 

Daryl nods.  He looks up at Carol and smiles before turning back to his work.

 

Lori winks at her.

 

Good lord.

 

“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Carol says, voice even, fake smile plastered on her face.

 

She hustles Lori into the back room.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Lori shrugs, but can’t seem to stop grinning.

 

“It was either hire him, or watch you shave him bald next week.  Honestly Carol, he’s about as subtle as a billboard.”

 

Carol closes her eyes and sighs. “You could have told me he was going to be here today.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

They lean against the washer and Lori puts an arm around her.  “Look. I’m not trying to meddle, but he _likes_ you, and you seem to like him, so just put him out of his misery and ask him out.”  

 

Lori says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.  Like it’s easy to put yourself out there, and for a brief moment Carol considers getting angry.  Lori has no idea.

  
“We’ll see.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! I'm really quite delighted with the response this little fic is getting - especially here on AO3. Comments seem so rare, but many people have left such kind reviews. Thank you!
> 
> One more part to go. xo


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Carol a full ten minutes after she’s put the first load in the washing machine before she ventures out to see Daryl again. She debates changing her shirt - even digs one out from the bottom of the laundry basket - before throwing it back in and settling for smoothing down her hair, fishing a loose piece of gum from her purse, and putting on some lipgloss with cartoon characters on the label that she finds in Sophia’s jean jacket pocket.

 

She’s nervous and jittery, but that’s nothing compared to the decadent thought of having an afternoon alone with Daryl. The next few hours of the future are clear, even if the rest is a haze.

 

Thanks to the noise of a circular saw, Daryl doesn’t look up when she makes her way back to the front of the shop. He just carries on cutting lengths of plywood on a couple of sawhorses with a pencil between his teeth. Something about the sturdy thickness of his wrists and the way his forearms tense while he’s working makes it hard for her to speak when it quiets again.

 

“Need a hand?”

 

It’s clear as day that he’s got it all under control, so she’s delighted when he puts the saw down and nods, cut pieces of wood clattering to the floor.

 

“Gonna lay out the frame first,” he says, clearing a space on the floor and pulling a tape measure from his hip. He straightens up and hands her the end. “Hold this.”

 

She holds on while he walks backwards away from her, and for once she can literally measure the space between them.  His hip grazes the side of a cart he’s commandeered to hold an electric drill and a large container of screws. The drill wobbles in place, but the screws topple off the cart in slow motion, then roll in every direction across the floor while Daryl curses and accidentally drops the tape measure. It retracts, and the butt of it bangs sharply into her thumb.

 

“Shit!” Daryl drops the three screws he managed to grab. Her thumb smarts, but she can almost ignore the throbbing when she sees the concerned and sheepish look on Daryl’s face. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

He exhales audibly and puts a hand to his forehead. It’s kind of adorable. She doesn’t want him feeling badly so she says the first thing that pops into her head.

 

“Didn’t know you wanted to screw around.”

 

Carol can’t believe she said it, but it’s worth it to watch Daryl’s entire face goes pink before he registers the pun. His only response is a mixture of sounds, like the beginning of retorts he just can’t express. “P-shh-t”

 

+++

 

By two o’clock the frame is screwed together, with Carol nervously giggling and throwing out enough other puns about screws, hammers, and nails that Daryl tells her to stop, even though he’s smirking.  Carol’s never done anything like this before; certainly not with somebody who was willing to teach her how to do things herself. Ed once had her hold a flashlight over the motor of the jeep one night while he did… whatever it was that he felt needed doing and didn’t bother explaining to her - barking at her when her arm tired and the light slipped to the wrong spot.

 

Daryl shows her how to change out a drill bit, and nods approvingly when she successfully drills a straight line of screws through the drywall and into a stud (when she found out that was what it was called, the puns about screwing got even more out of hand). The truth is they make a good pair, passing tools between them without confusion (without anyone yelling), lifting opposite ends of the sheets of drywall in the back of his truck, wordlessly deciding to take a break on the curb so Daryl can have a cigarette and she can have some water.

 

“Eat your heart out, Bob Vila,” he says, blowing smoke into the air.

 

She laughs, confidence bubbling over.

 

By four o’clock the drywall is up, and Daryl shows her how to tape the seams and plaster. He moves his arms with the mud trowel so fluidly, and with such ease, she can’t help but stare.  They clean up while the wall dries, and Carol is struck by the thought that their time together is almost over. Again.

 

She’s getting tired of waiting on him.

 

Before she knows it the shop is back to rights and Daryl’s out front packing up his truck to leave.  He’ll come back in to say goodbye, she knows, but if he says goodbye then he really will leave.  Carol doesn’t know what to do with the butterflies in her stomach or the way her body fidgets, so she goes to the back room to see to her laundry.  He makes his way back to her, work boots shuffling in the hallway behind her, and her heart starts beating faster.

 

“Guess that’s it,” he says. When she turns to face him his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s chewing the inside of his lip.

 

“I guess so.”

 

He’s so close. The room is so small. It would be so easy just to reach out and -

 

“Thanks,” he says, jutting out his chin in the direction of the shop, “For uh, puttin’ in a good word - with Lori. Can always use the extra work.”

 

The confusion she feels must be registering on her face, because his face falls for a millisecond before he’s backing toward the door.

 

“Never mind.”

 

“I didn’t talk to Lori about you…” _Not about your ability to drywall_ , “- but I would’ve,” she stumbles over her words, desperate for him to stay. “She didn’t - I didn’t know she-” He takes a step back into the room and she could cry with relief, but instead keeps talking. “I’m glad - I’m glad you were here today. With me, I mean.”

 

He straightens up.

 

“I like it. When you’re here,” she tells his boots, “I like you.” And then she holds her breath, because this is as far as she can go. This is as much as she can risk.

 

Daryl doesn’t say anything for a long time, but he doesn’t leave either. Then his boots edge closer to hers.

 

“Aw, hell,” he mutters under his breath, and suddenly his forehead is on her shoulder and his rough hands are grasping awkwardly at her wrists, and then her arms. His hair still smells like grapefruit. Just like in her dream.

 

Her hands settle on his chest, and his snake around her waist and up over her shoulders. Carol didn’t expect a hug, but now that it’s happening she can’t remember the last time a man hugged her when she wanted him to.

 

Slowly they get accustomed to the closeness, to the welcome proximity of a body in their personal space. Their touches are tentative, but surer. His hand moves to the nape of her neck, her arms to his back.  The trembling in her fingers subsides. All she feels is warm and alive. He pulls far enough away to stare at her mouth.

 

“I wanna - can I…?”

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

He kisses her before the breathless word can leave her lips.

 

It can’t be real, the way it feels to be kissed by Daryl, the tenderness he imparts with the gentlest pressure of his mouth.

 

The first kiss leads to a second, and a third, and then Carol loses track entirely, blood singing in her veins. Vaguely she notes that her cardigan is somehow on the floor and the pencil has fallen from Daryl’s ear to join it.

 

Her mouth is on the pulse at his throat when she hears the bell over the front door and Lori’s voice call out.

 

“Hello?”

 

Daryl pulls away from her like he’s been doused with a hose and rubs a hand over his flushed face. His lips are swollen, and Carol touches her own, oddly giddy when she registers that hers look the same.

 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, first stepping away and then teetering back toward her. “Do you… like food?”

 

“What?” She half-laughs when she says it. He looks at her urgently, going even redder than she thought possible.

 

“Dinner,” he blurts out. “Tomorrow?”

 

Lori’s footsteps are coming closer. She can hear Rick’s voice too, and their muffled conversation about the new wall before Lori calls out again.

 

“There better be _someone_  in here cause the front door is wide open!”

 

Frantically Carol tries to clear her head enough to respond, but the whole situation is too much and she can’t stop grinning.

 

“I can’t tomorrow. Sophia has dance. Tuesday?”

 

“Okay,” he says, and smiles so wide she can see his teeth, “Okay.”

 

Daryl darts forward to kiss her quickly on the cheek, his nose bumping hers, and then he’s gone, scrambling out the back door.

 

“What the hell?” she hears Rick say when the door swings shut heavily behind Daryl. He pops his head in the back room, puzzled. “You okay, Carol?”

 

And then her grin turns into a fit of giggles that she’s helpless to suppress. Lori joins him at the door, takes one look at Carol, and smiles too.

 

“Oh, I’d say she’s just fine.”

 

+++

 

Carol’s smile doesn’t fade on Monday when she plays it all back in her head over and over, so distracted that she doesn’t notice she’s humming until Jacqui points it out. She can’t set foot in the back room to fold towels without blushing.

 

She keeps smiling when Daryl calls the shop from a payphone that same day asking for her.  Amy passes her the phone with her head tilted and her mouth half open.

 

“It’s _Daryl_. He wants to _talk_ to _you_.”  

 

“Hey. Forgot to get your number,” he mumbles when she picks up. She can practically hear him wincing.

 

“Yeah, you did.”

 

Carol smiles her way through the slightly burnt pizza they eat on their first date. She tastes it on him when they eagerly kiss goodnight in the cab of his truck.

 

She smiles when he takes her bowling with Sophia and gives her a look of feigned disgust (given away by the twitch at the corner of his mouth) when she writes his name as “Pookie” on the score sheet. Sophia is cautious of him at first - it’s hard for her to trust men - but soon she’s telling him all about her teacher and the “stupid” book report she has to write on Bridge to Terabithia.  Daryl nods along, jiggling his leg where he sits, clearly in unfamiliar territory.

 

She smiles (and cries) months later when, over a bowl of Cheerios one morning, Sophia declares, “I like him, mom. He’s really nice to me.”

 

Soon enough, Carol finds herself smiling every day.

 

+++

 

It’s fifteen minutes to closing when the bell over the door to Super Cuts jingles, and Carol looks up from the chunks of hair on the floor she’s sweeping around her chair at the back. It’s Daryl. His hair has grown out some since she stopped cutting it. Lori greets him warmly at the front desk, reaching over to press a hand to his arm.

 

“Carol, I’m locking up. Cash out is done. See you tomorrow!”

 

She grabs her purse from the desk drawer and waves once she gets outside. Daryl waves back and locks locks the door behind her.

 

When he turns to face Carol, the look in his eyes makes her stomach flip. His stride toward her is purposeful.

 

“You’re early,” she chides.

 

“So what if I am?” he asks, gaze steady.

 

A minute later the broom is on the floor and they’re in the back room, making out like a couple of teenagers, laughing and kissing.

 

They haven’t slept together yet.

 

She’s not ready, and the way he sighs into her mouth before he pulls away, tremulous and shaking, tells her he isn’t ready either.  And it’s okay. That will come.  

 

There is nothing ahead of them but time to savour the sparks.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you stuck around to see this through (almost a year since I updated - yikes!) you are the best. Thanks for your patience. Thanks also to NotLaura for being the best beta for this last chapter, and to Rambotron and Liddy for the sweetest encouragement.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now! I have this one 90% finished, so updates should come a little more regularly than you might have come to expect from me. And no, I haven't forgotten about Slaughtered. It's coming. 
> 
> Any thoughts on this are greatly appreciated. Let me know what you think. :)


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